Hidden Scars
by rileyluvr13
Summary: Harry Potter has one on the outside, but everyone else is hiding them on the inside. A collection of one-shots and drabbles throughout the Harry Potter series. For the Forum Wide Competition on the HPFC and beyond.
1. Pretending

**.&.**

**House:** Hufflepuff

**Prompt:** Lavender Brown (paired with Ron Weasley)

**A/N:** Well, hello to everyone reading this. This collection of fics is going to be for the Forum Wide Competition on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum. I just joined the competition and I'm competing for Hufflepuff (yay!). But once the competition is over, I'll be using this fic for little other drabbles I think of, so I'd be cool if you put this on story alert.

My character prompt was Lavender Brown, and I had to pair her with someone. I was actually surprised by how tough of a character she is to write about. But, anyway, here is a one-shot on their relationship. I hope you enjoy, and leave a review if you please. :)

**TO THE JUDGES:** Even though the document says this one-shot is over three thousand words, it's actually only 2,969 words on my MS Word word counter, and Tat confirmed it too. Just in case you might have thought this was over the word limit and you would've taken off points. Thanks. :)

**.&.**

_.:. Pretending .:._

**.&.**

Lavender Brown pretends not to see.

They're sitting in Potions class, and she can barely keep her eyes off of him. He has this gorgeous red hair that flows down in waves to stop just a little below his ears and curls up at the ends. She wishes she could reach over and twist it around and around her finger, as she hopes she has successfully done to his heart as well, since it's what he has done to hers. He blinks at Professor Slughorn, and she can see that he's trying hard to concentrate, but by the way his orange lashes keep slipping down over his baby blue eyes, she knows that it's a lost cause.

She peers down at his parchment to see that it's completely blank. Lavender knows that she'll have to be the only one to take notes for this lesson, because Merlin knows her boyfriend can't pay attention for his life this early in the morning. She quickly picks up her quill and starts writing down the list of ingredients that Slughorn is rattling off.

_Four leeches…_

_One Hippogriff talon…_

_Two vials of beetle juice…_

She can't help herself, and she sneaks another quick glance at him. He's now flicked his eyes down to his parchment, and she watches the recognition dawn on his face – that he hasn't taken down a single note of Slughorn's lecture because he's been half asleep the entire time. He blinks his eyes a few times to ban the exhaustion from them, then raises his head in alarm and grabs for his quill. His eyes scramble back and forth as he reaches for his Potions book and starts flipping between random recipes.

"Lav, what page are we on?" he whispers and turns to look at her.

His beauty strikes her once more. The pale contours of his face, the dash of freckles along the bridge of his nose like cinnamon on top of a sweet pie – _They taste sweeter_, Lavender thinks – the blindingly white teeth that peek out from under his upper lip, where a soft peach fuzz lies that tickles her when they kiss for hours on end.

"Page one hundred and five," she says quietly, smiling sweetly up at him.

Ron Weasley nods his head and turns back to his pristine copy of _Advanced Potion Making._ Deciding that he's completely hopeless and if they want to pass, it'll have to be thanks to her hard work, she sits up a little straighter in class and taps her feathered quill against her parchment. She's determined to start paying attention. However, Lavender has never been good at focusing on a task at hand. Her eyes drift from Slughorn's overwhelming white moustache to a bushy head at the front of the classroom to a hippogriff talon resting on the desk in front of her. And suddenly, she's back to sneaking a glance at Ron.

Although she expects him to be staring unseeingly at Professor Slughorn, he isn't. His gaze is a little more focused, the blues sharpened with purpose. A lock of his hair falls into his face when he leans his head on a knuckled hand, but he hardly cares. His head isn't tilted up towards Slughorn and the front of the classroom, however, but rather, his gaze is resting on something straight ahead.

With a little hesitation, she follows his stare and inwardly gasps at what he's staring at.

Or should Lavender say _her_. He's staring at her, at that bushy head. Her hair isn't as wild and crazy as it used to be back during their first year together, when Lavender and her Parvati Patil used to chortle at her buckteeth and mock her when she eagerly jumped in her seat to answer every little question. It's now silky and smooth, as if she's been taking better care of it. She's furiously copying down notes, but then she accidentally fumbles her quill, which clatters to the floor. She bends over to pick it up again, and Lavender catches the enchanted glint in her eyes, full of knowledge and passion for learning. Her slender nose turns up in the air once again, however, when she turns back around and feverishly continues to write down Slughorn's every word.

He's staring at Hermione Granger.

A chill runs through Lavender. The two friends have been fighting for months now. Lavender doesn't know what they fought about, but she can't really bring herself to care either, not even for her precious boyfriend. She's fully convinced she has nothing to worry about, anyway, because Hermione has been out of the picture for ages. Nothing's gong to change that, and it'd be silly to think otherwise.

But Lavender is a little unsettled when she turns back to glance at Ron. His mouth is hanging open in wonder, and his eyes are glassed over, still glued to her.

"Ron," she hisses.

Usually he responds to her high-pitched tone, which always has a way of getting his attention. But this time, he doesn't turn to her. If anything, he falls even more into a trance. His eyes seem magically enchanted to never leave the back of her head, and Lavender is powerless to do anything. It feels like she's a first year witch against the Dark Lord; her heart is sinking further and further as each tortuous second passes.

"_Ron_!"

He breaks out of his stupor and quickly whips his head around to face her. His eyes are still half-lidded, but at least he has closed his mouth.

She doesn't want to appear suspicious, so she gives him a little smile. "Just wanted to tell you how cute you look today." She reaches over and runs a finger down the length of his arm. This causes him to give her a big, dopey grin that she thinks suits him so well.

But even after Slughorn calls her out and orders her to pay attention in class, and even after her and Ron walk out of class holding hands, and even after they stop in the middle of the corridor on the way to their next class – Ancient Runes for her, and Defense Against the Dark Arts for him – and kiss and kiss and kiss for well over five minutes before he reluctantly lets her go, she can't stop thinking about his gaze on the bushy brown-haired girl in Potions.

Lavender Brown pretends not to see, but she never forgets.

**.&.**

Lavender Brown pretends not to hear.

They're in the Gryffindor common room together, and their relationship is getting serious. It's only a week before Christmas and they've only been going out for a while, but she doesn't think that they're rushing at all. She believes that when two people are so spectacularly in love, they can go at any pace they want, move at any speed they please, listen to whatever music that will make their own bodies groove in synch.

At least, she thinks it's love between them. She's talked it all over with Parvati. Her best friend analyzed all of Ron's actions and words, and she confirmed, with help from all of the Muggle magazines she hordes in their dormitory, that Ron loves her. He's always with her, for one. And he always snogs her, which is most important, Parvati stresses, because how can two people in love have a healthy relationship without complete physical trust? Parvati also mentioned that two people in love have a strong emotional connection and completely understand each other, but Lavender doesn't think they have that. But Parvati is convinced that it'll come and progress into true love soon enough, and Lavender agrees because she's sure that she's so close to the wire-thin boundary of teenager to young adult, girl to woman.

But Lavender's mind is wandering again, so she decides to solely focus on the beautiful boy in front of her, who's staring at her with so much feeling and meaning that it fills her heart. She's sure that the glint in his blue eyes is full of love, and not just a result of the reflection from the steady flicker of the fire. He glances around, making sure that the common room is empty, before he leans closer and presses his lips to hers.

Her body hums with adrenaline as it does each time he kisses her. Although this time, it's more electric, more charged, more exhilarating. It may be because they could be caught staying up past curfew at any time, or that the fire is making them sweat as their bodies press up against each other's. Lavender feels the caffeine from her evening tea coursing through her and fueling her every move, allowing her to keep up with the demanding rhythm he's pushing. And yet, everything feels perfect. She _knows_ everything is perfect; she can tell that he loves her, and only her, and that everything Parvati's been telling her has been right all along.

They fall back against the cushions of the couch, and Lavender is now under her precious Ron Weasley. He's kissing her with fervor, with passion, with more purpose than ever before. It's making her squirm underneath him, trying to get closer to him. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him harder, and he responds with matching enthusiasm. Their lips are moving and their teeth are grinding and their limbs are tangling and it's all so thrilling that she can barely even remember to breathe.

When she breaks away for air, his trails his lips to her neck, and they tickle her as he murmurs, "I want you."

The words sent shivers up and down her body. She isn't sure if she's ready for that commitment. But if he's determined to consummate their love, then surely she can be ready too, right? She opens her eyes again and tries to catch his own because she wants see the ardor burning within them, but they're closed.

"I want you, Hermione…"

The end of the sentence trails off in a whisper, but she has already heard him and knows what he has said. Her eyes widen, and she stares down at her boyfriend in shock. But he doesn't even realize what he's said. He just continues kissing her neck – light, butterfly kisses, so feathery that they're working effectively at melting her from head to toe. She's finding it harder and harder to protest and argue with lips like those.

Maybe he just made a mistake. Maybe he was thinking about Hermione because her and Lavender both have the same silky brown hair. Maybe his mind was just wandering, and maybe he was still really upset over fighting with Hermione, and maybe there was some explanation for this in one of Parvati's Muggle magazines that she'd look up later, and maybe, and maybe, and maybe. Lavender has convinced herself that Ron meant her, his Lav-Lav, not that cretin Hermione Granger.

However, she can still only find the strength to say, "I want you too, Ron."

Lavender Brown pretends not to hear, because it's the only admission of love she'll get.

**.&.**

Lavender Brown pretends not to feel.

It's the first day back after winter break, and everyone is a little sluggish and tired. Lavender practically had to beat Parvati with her pillow before she finally got her best friend out of bed, dressed, and ready to go down for breakfast. Now they're sitting down in the Great Hall, laughing and joking and remembering how much all the Gryffindor sixth years missed each other. Ron is on her left, and she's not ashamed about it. The previous incident is determined to stay out of her mind. She doesn't have to cause a riff between them, right? Especially not on this lovely day, where everyone is so eager to see each other and share their Christmastime stories.

Lavender gazes beside her and catches Ron laughing at some joke that Seamus has just told. But as he leans forward to take another spoonful of scrambled eggs, she sees that something is missing.

She had spent so much time picking out his Christmas gift. She and Parvati had spent hours browsing through the catalogues that they had their owls drop off from big-name wizarding jewelry stores, ones where there was nothing sold for less than a galleon. They had poured over the spreads for hours, trying to pick out the perfect present. When Parvati had finally squealed in delight one night and pointed to a locket that could be engraved with a personal message, Lavender had immediately filled out the order form and sent it with her owl to Merlin's Treasures, which delivered the present to her all wrapped up just in time to send for Christmas.

She had been so proud of it, and now it was nowhere to be found on his person.

"Won Won?" she says, staring up at her beloved. He dumps the spoonful of food onto his plate, then turns to face her.

"What?" he asks. For once, his mouth isn't full of food.

"Why aren't you wearing your Christmas present?"

Ron's blue eyes go wide, and his face goes even paler than it already is. She begins to suspect that something is wrong when Harry Potter chokes on his toast, and Dean Thomas's fork clatters to his plate.

Lavender can feel her heart sinking, but she knows she has to continue.

He grasps for words, but can't find any. He reaches into his robes and pulls out the perfect little black box, which holds the sparkling golden locket. He takes it out and holds between his fingers. "D'you mean this?"

"_Yes_," she says in an exasperated tone. "Of course that's what I mean."

Just then, she watches Hermione Granger from a few feet down across the table clear her throat, politely wipe her mouth with her napkin, and jump up. Her hair flounces around her. She stops to gather the spare pages of _The Daily Prophet_ that are littering on top of her finished plate.

Lavender has to act fast. "Here, let me put it on."

She stands up and comes around to his back. She takes the locket from his hands and spreads it over his neck so that the pendant is only a little bit to the right of where his actual, beating heart lies. She can feel it beating faster and faster under his skin. She'd like to think that it's her touch that's causing this reaction, but no. She notices that Ron's stare is focused above the chortling Harry and Dean and on Hermione. The brown-haired girl briefly lifts her gaze to his, and then flicks it back down again, a blush coloring her cheeks.

Lavender brushes her hands over the back of Ron's neck as she fingers the clasp. He shivers involuntarily, and it makes her fingers tremble harder. She's trying to flick the clasp open, trying to make it snap into place, but her eyes can't focus. They keep flicking up to Hermione, who's crossing in front of them now. Lavender can't help but feel powerless as Ron stares hopelessly after her. Even though she's standing over Ron possessively, she can't help but feel that her presence is negligible between Ron and Hermione's loaded stare. And then she's gone, heading out of the Great Hall, and Ron's eyes turn downward again.

She quickly finishes up the clasp and sits down next to him in a huff. And yet, even though she shouldn't, she still sidles up to his side and nuzzles his shoulder. Her eyes close shut and his Christmas sweater scratches her cheek and the cold locket dangles and hits her face like a snowball slap.

Lavender Brown pretends not to feel, so she doesn't have to notice him pulling away.

**.&.**

Lavender Brown pretended not to know.

She sits in Potions class. She's next to Parvati again, back to sitting with her best friend again. But neither of them is really paying attention. They're passing notes back and forth today, hiding the pieces of parchment between their copies of _Advanced Potion Making_. Lavender can't find the strength to pay attention, and if even she could, she figures it'd be terribly boring and pointless anyway.

Parvati taps Lavender on the elbow, and when she turns to face her best friend, Parvati slips Lavender a note into her lap.

It reads, _You okay?_

Lavender feels like laughing for the first time in the past month. Of course she's not okay. She's feeling anything but okay. She knows what she saw when Ron and Hermione came out of the common room together, when the final straw snapped that was feebly holding his and Lavender's relationship together. She knows that breaking up with Ron was the right choice to make.

But sitting behind them in Potions today is almost too much to bear, and Parvati must sense that. Ron is sitting next to Hermione these days, and now he has his arm around the back of her chair. But she isn't even paying attention to it, just studiously taking down notes as she has done ever since the first class at the beginning of the year. She doesn't notice how Ron's officially claimed her as his property, not in any words but in just one action. It might only be meant as a gesture of friendship, but Lavender can tell it's so much more, even if Ron doesn't know it yet.

Lavender tried to ignore the way he looked at her in class. She tried to ignore the way he murmured Hermione's name. She tried to ignore his shudder when she clasped her locket around his neck. But ignoring it all hadn't worked.

Because even though Lavender Brown pretended not to know, she still felt the pain.

**.&.**


	2. Single Minded

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**House:** Hufflepuff

**Prompt:** Choice B – Astoria/Draco

**A/N:** I found this quote in the book I'm reading right now, and I thought it might've fit a piece on Draco Malfoy perfectly, but I really, really struggled with this piece. It just wasn't coming out right, and I'm not sure if the quote fits with the story too well anymore because I'm afraid I made it too Astoria-centric. Anyway, I hope it's at least a little bit good. Thanks for reading, and care to leave a review? :)

**JUDGES:** Once again, regardless of what the FanFiction word counter says, this piece is only 2,775 words. Thanks!

**.&.**

_I have had no thought other than this: Stay alive._

_And to have had only that thought, each day, was heaven._

– Page 14 of _Linger_ by Maggie Stiefvater

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_.:. Single Minded .:._

**.&.**

"Draco?"

The stone steps leading up to the Slytherin common room were shockingly cold under my stocking-clad feet. I went unnoticed until spoken, as I often did with my soft ballet flats or bare feet. The common room was cavernous, adding to the eerie atmosphere that hung all around. The stony walls were dark, and the only occasional highlight of color came from a few green lamps and a warm fire. The latter was starting to dwindle, the flames receding to barely lick a foot off of the ground.

I took another step up. The coldness on the ball of my foot made me involuntarily shiver. The white-blonde head bent over the fire went unmoved. He was bathed in mostly green radiance, and the only other color on him was the faint and dim orange from the flares. It was as if the entire room was a mixture of greens and grays, and he was so desperately trying to be included in the single circle of glowing light.

As I reached the landing to the common room, he finally turned his head around to catch my gaze. Then he slowly turned back around to face the fire again.

"Draco," I said, softer this time. My feet shuffled across the stone floor, only stopping when they reached the edge of the soft carpet with an intricate snake pattern that blocked a square in the center of the room.

His face was contorted, as if thinking was too much of an effort for him at the moment. Heavy bags hung under his eyes with the weight of a day's struggle, and his pale hands looked even colder and ghostly in the midnight hour. His face was illuminated by the glow from the flames in front of him, and his gray eyes were flickering with its reflection. Even though the blazes mirrored in his eyes were trying to show me that there was something behind his heavy lids, all I could notice was the vacant blank stare that refused to relinquish its gaze from ahead.

"Get the hell out of here," he ordered without turning towards me.

His hands were in his hair. The pale strands were sticking up at odd angles; one piece was swept off to the left, and a huge chunk had fallen to cover half of his forehead. His robes were hanging limply on his body, as if he had recently lost a lot of weight and not even bothered to get them refitted – almost a sacrilegious act in the Malfoy household. His cheekbones were clearly defined, the purple shadows stretching back to his ears as if they wanted to tell him something that he couldn't just quite understand or didn't plain want to.

I raised my chin at him and said only one word: "No."

That was all it took, just a word loaded with so much meaning and feeling and truth, to make him finally flick his gaze back to me again. His eyes were narrowing like pointy daggers, but I didn't even flinch as he threw all the emotion pent up inside him right at my heart.

"I am not in the mood to sit here and take your bullshit, Astoria," he spat. "So just run along back to your dormitory, where pretty little fourteen year olds like you belong."

I was proud of myself; I barley even flinched when his words hit my ears. After four years of knowing Draco Malfoy – of learning, of living, of listening to him – I was finally able to take his harsh words, his beautifully crafted phrases that were dipped in poison, thereby stinging the skin and spreading so far underneath. He was severe, he was unrelenting, and he was cruel – but I just stayed planted where I was, a resolute expression on my face, and equally as obstinate and unmoving as him.

I noted inwardly that Pansy Parkinson would have run away.

His eyes slowly tore from mine and down to the ground. His head slowly righted on his spine, turning back to face the fire again. The last lick of emotion faded as the flames took over their reflection in his gray orbs once again. The same blank yet calculating expression reclaimed his face.

It was an uphill battle, and I knew what path was easiest to take.

I could walk right out of the common room, like he oh-so vehemently wanted me to do. I could crawl under the thick velvet covers in my bed and fall asleep, rocking along to the lullaby of the snores around me. I could wake up in the morning, frazzled and disgruntled but refreshed, and join one or two of my scarce friends at breakfast on the new February day, where the wind was still crisp and biting but no snow longer lined the ground.

But I knew that it wasn't what I should have done.

So I tentatively – always tentatively around Draco Malfoy – took a seat on the couch next to him. He was firmly planted in the middle of it, but there was still a little bit of room for me to squeeze in my petite figure. The cushion barely budged under my weight. For all he knew, I could have left the common room as if I had never even been there in the first place. Maybe I wasn't even sitting there next to him in that moment, for all the attention he was giving me.

But I didn't want him to pretend I wasn't there. Our relationship was too complicated for him to just sit there and ignore me.

It had started back when I was sorted into Slytherin as a first year student. I was scared; I was small and bendable and breakable; I was quiet and reticent, and yet always omnipresent. I was a little girl who was too shy to make many friends and instead put on a façade that convinced people I never needed anyone and I never would. I still felt like that person, even today.

But on that first day, I stepped down the aisles between the tables after my meeting with the Sorting Hat and spotted my sister's red hair. A supercilious smile was curved on her pink lips as her wide brown eyes followed me. I stopped in front of her, hoping she could give me a seat, but she only said, "Well, congrats, little sis. Can't say I'm surprised, although I thought you might've been too weak and ended up in Hufflepuff instead."

In the Slytherin house, it was always competition; always racing to be the best or the brightest, or trying to just _act_ like you knew what was going on enough to give you an edge, or pretend you were disapproving just to strike up dissent. I had noticed these traits form in my sweet, innocent sister the year after she had gone to Hogwarts; during those nine months, I had progressed from her playmate and confidant to her little baby nine year old sister with the too long silver-blonde tresses and the funny almond-shaped coffee eyes that she was staring into at that moment.

Someone coughed across from her, and my eyes traveled from my sister's contemptuous face to Draco Malfoy's equally arrogant smirk. He said with a curve to his lips, "I've heard so much about you."

I stood standing, my shoulders back and my headband keeping my hair from falling in my face as I – as confidently as I could muster – answered, "Well, I'm sure you have much more to learn then."

Our strange limbo had started from there. There would be snippets of witty and brutally exhausting conversation between us from across the Slytherin table every few weeks. Occasionally we would brush the shoulders when we passed by each other in the hallway, which caused the hairs on my arms to bristle for a fight, and he would surprise me by only smirking over his shoulder as if he had a little secret he wasn't sharing. I wasn't an integral part of his life, nor was he a staple in mine; but nevertheless, we had developed _something_ together.

We would stay up in the common room late at night; he'd be drinking stolen firewhiskey, and I'd be studying for a Potions exam. My head would be bent over a book while he would take swigs of his glass. For once, his cronies Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't be hanging around. He would snap at me, "What are you studying that crap for?"

"Because I actually want to have a future," I would say curtly.

But Draco just snorted. "Future. A word that only means anything if you have one."

He was arrogant, and cruel, and unforgiving. A single little misstep in my logic or wording, and he would attack it until no end, proving himself superior. But I could keep up with him in a way not even my sister could, and I liked to think he enjoyed that. In his carefree and earlier days that consisted of no greater hardship than torturing Harry Potter, we would inadvertently end up arguing wits in a way that I didn't think even my thirteen-year-old-self believed I could.

"He asks about you," Daphne had said the summer before everything changed with him. "He won't stop asking in his goddamn letters to me."

I had come back into my fourth year at Hogwarts refreshed with this new meaning in our relationship – that he had took interest in me outside his little circle of Slytherin sixth years, and maybe this meant our friendship could blossom. But I could tell from the beginning of the year that something had changed in him. He was distant. I would sit in the common room late at night, like always to escape my giggling roommates, but he wouldn't talk to me anymore. The look on his face was so pensive, or frenzied, or just plain crazy, that I just couldn't disturb it. He had stopped talking to me, stopped joking with Daphne, stopped confiding in anyone. I had heard confirmed rumors that he was one of the Death Eaters. After that, he had even stopped coming down to sit into the common room, and this was the first time I caught him there in months.

But now, with the serious expression on his face, I knew something was seriously wrong. In all the years I had known him, I had never been scared of him, never been terrified of what he could do, even though his heritage and his parents' legacy and their connections gave me reason to be. But today, he scared me, in an entirely different way. As I sat there on the couch next to him, my hands folded in my lap and my feet crossed at the ankles, gazing at the fingers knotted in his hair and the scars of pure exhaustion etched on his face, I was scared. Whether I was scared of or for him, though, I couldn't say.

"What's going on?" I asked him quietly.

He didn't answer me at first. My eyes traced the rise and fall of his chest, hidden under the white dress shirt that hung limply from around his neck. His green Slytherin tie was dangling over his chest, not even properly done up.

He eventually snarled, "As if I'd tell you."

I liked to believe that one of the reasons he had never tired of me was because of my patience. I just sat there next to him. The fire crackled on against all odds, caught in a duel with the sinister atmosphere of the common room, with those unnaturally high ceilings and the sheer chill that crept into your bones if you sat for too long.

"Try me," I said. "I miss how you talked to me."

His lids briefly fluttered. The evidence of his change was all over him if you looked hard enouugh, but the most obvious transformation was revealed when he ran his hand further through his hair. The tip of a black mark was barely visible under the cuff of his white shirt, and the sight of it thrilled and repulsed me at the same time.

He finally said, "Do you realize that I only have time for one thought these days, and that thought consists of just working to stay alive? I don't have time for silly little talks anymore."

At that moment, I didn't see anyone inside when I looked at him anymore; I didn't see the teenager who sat with me, drunk and spewing out random beliefs and truths for me to listen to and debate. I didn't see the boyfriend who kissed Pansy Parkinson on the lips whenever enough of his friends were around to watch and cheer. I didn't even see a growing boy. I only saw the body of a guy who had been gripped by so much terror that it took my breath away.

"You'll lose yourself," I responded, breathless. "You'll lose yourself if you let that consume you."

He just simply stared into the fire. "At least it's a form of heaven when I'm not trying to sort out everything that's going on in my head."

I reached out a hand to him. I wasn't sure what its intentions were, but once it landed on his arm, I realized that I was trying to comfort him. He flinched at the contact, and his head whipped around so that his eyes were locked on mine. They were wide, shocked by the small display of affection that even astounded myself.

His bicep was warm and feverish under my fingers, under the cloth of his shirt, which was such a contrast to how I expected his gaunt skin to feel.

"If you don't, then you aren't you anymore. You aren't being yourself right now. Please realize that. Please fix it."

I was trying to connect with him; I was trying to make him understand. He was so dead-set on saving himself, but simultaneously it was eating him up alive. It was amazing how simple a goal could be so destructive at the same time.

I could see that he was at least trying to comprehend what I was saying through the glint in his eyes. He hadn't talked to me in months. He hadn't unburdened his soul, shot out a witty comment, even put on his favorite arrogant façade. He had only snapped at me and closed himself off from the world, and he was so consumed, so stressed, that staying alive was the only thought he believed wouldn't harm him and that anything else on top would break him.

But I saw that the only thing that was breaking him was himself.

I hesitantly moved my hand up his arm, but he suddenly twisted away from my touch. He abruptly stood up and looked down at me with a bewildered expression that only sleep deprivation and calculated reasoning could give. I gazed up at him, my confident eyes staring directly at him, feeling as if I could win this battle, as if he would let me, as if he would actually start to feel everything that we used to – the jokes, the sarcasm, and whatever care we had for each other underneath – and everything that he was missing by going at this alone.

But, as he broke away from my gaze and the familiar vacant expression reclaimed his face, I realized he was too far-gone from that.

He headed around the couch, nervously tugging on the collar of his shirt. I was left speechless, staring into the now moribund fire. I couldn't blame myself for trying once, but my thoughts were nagging at me to run after him, to go save him, to try and do something to prevent him from ultimately losing himself. But I was struck down with the weight of loss and defeat, and I felt powerless to do anything.

"I don't say this often, but thank you." His voice rang out from behind me. "Even though you're stupid for trying."

His voice was so pent up with emotion in the moment that I wanted to turn around and see his expression. I wanted to stare up at him and continue to prove to him that this wasn't the easiest way to handle his situation. But even if I followed and tried to change him, after our conversation on the couch, I doubted it'd make a difference anymore.

He wasn't ever going to see that trying to stay alive wasn't a form of heaven; it was the worst kind of hell.


	3. And It's All About the Game

**.&.**

**House:** Hufflepuff

**Prompt:** Cedric Diggory asking Cho Chang to the Yule Ball

**A/N:** Another piece I'm not too thrilled about. But I'll let you lovely readers decide that for yourselves. Thanks for reading. :)

**.&.**

_.:._ _And It's All About the Game .:._

**.&.**

"You do realize that there are two amazing seekers who are going to ask you to the Yule Ball?"

Whenever Marietta Edgecombe would make silly, inane comments like that in early September of my fifth year, I would just wave my hand at her. I was willing to play the skeptic since it was so early in the game and answer, "Yeah, yeah. Sure they will."

But on this middle December day, only two weeks from the actual event, I was getting a little more doubtful each passing day, antsy for the security that having a boy on my arm would bring. Each morning when I opened my trunk, I would brush my hands over the beautiful dress robe at the bottom, just to taunt myself each time I reached for a pair of shoes. The glittering and shimmering fabric, cascading like a waterfall between my fingers, sliding like silky velvet from my hands. I wanted to know that I would have someone to impress with this gorgeous piece of clothing on Christmas day.

So instead, when we were walking to Potions together, I responded by saying, "Do you really think so? Like, do you honestly think they will ask me?"

She stopped in the middle of the hallway to fix me with her brown-eyed gaze. "It's obvious that they're going to ask you. It's all around school. They're just a little slow, that's all."

Marietta was equally as right as she was annoying about the whole situation. The wintry air that settled over Hogwarts was buzzing with anticipation over the Yule Ball. Everyone was curious as to who was going with who and whether their dress robes had come in yet and what color they were and just about everything else. I had gotten a few invitations from other Ravenclaw boys, and even a few from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students, whom I had barely even know, but politely declined; what would be the fun in going with someone I barely even talked to? And yet, regardless, Marietta would be on my case about my date situation everyday, asking me whether I'd been asked yet by one of the two admirers I was secretly holding out for.

"Merlin, Cho, you're so lucky. If I could have even _one_ of the Triwizard champions after me, I would just die."

"Then why don't you ask them yourself?" I teased.

My best friend just waved her hand at me in dismissal of the idea. "No, no, they're all yours. You can take your pick."

Which was the exact problem.

I liked both of them – which was an understatement of sorts. The butterflies in your stomach didn't roam when you merely "liked" someone. But both boys made me feel like this, and coincidentally, both of them were seekers; and yet, I still didn't know which one of them would catch me, the snitch in this game of Quidditch.

Cedric Diggory was like an open-book to read and understand and love all the same. He was drop-dead gorgeous, with flowing and wavy dark hair, the locks looking as if they were silky enough for me to run my hands through. His stormy gray eyes would distract me as I was chasing after the snitch against Hufflepuff in a heated game; when he would notice this, half of his mouth would quirk upward in a smile, which to me was as infuriating as it was seductive. But I knew he was an all-around good guy and trustworthy sixth year, which was why most of our peers had dubbed him the true Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament.

Off the pitch, he would smile at me in the hallways between classes and say, "Hey, Cho," as we brushed shoulders. I would blush, and all of my Ravenclaw friends would huddle around me, giggling and speaking in hushed whispers and pointing at him as he continued on, his head turned around to catch my reaction, that same quirky smile perched on his lips. The girls would whisper-shout at me, "Did _Cedric Diggory_ just say hi to you? _The_ Cedric Diggory?"

And that was about when, with all of my luck, I would run into Harry Potter.

He was special, the proclaimed Boy Who Lived. But quite frankly, I couldn't see him with just a vague title. I knew how awkward he was with girls, how he almost fell off his broom when I zoomed by him way too fast on the pitch, how he floundered his way through the first challenge of the Triwizard Tournament. As far as I could tell, the only distinction he had from any of the other gawky teenage boys at Hogwarts was the scar that struck like lightning across his forehead. But that still didn't explain why I was falling for him too.

Whenever I passed him, Harry would attempt to shoot me a grin or catch my attention as well, but he would inevitably end up tripping over his friend Ron Weasley's feet or dropping one of his books or walking into a seventh year Slytherin. And that would be when all the girls surrounding me would turn to me in utter awe, wondering how I had snatched up not one, but _two_ Triwizard champions, with both of them wrapped around my finger. They would gape and gasp, "_Harry Potter_ too?"

Of course, I didn't mean to have both Cedric and Harry caught up on me. It wasn't as if I deserved it, or had gone out of my way to make myself known to them, or flirted with them excessively until they noticed me. The only conclusion I could come up with was that it all started with the heat of the Quidditch pitch. A glance, a gaze that locked as our brooms glided alongside each other's, full of passion for the sport and growing curiosity for each other. My stomach swooping or dropping depending on whether I caught the snitch or not, depending on how overjoyed my opponent became, depending on whether they glanced back at me with a grin on their face, depending on whether I liked what I saw.

And boy, did I.

And so I couldn't help the nagging wonder in the back of my mind that questioned why neither of these boys had asked me to the Yule Ball yet. And, better yet, who I'd go with when they did.

"You know I can't pick," I whispered to Marietta. We took our seats in Potions, and our chatter was easily masked by other conversations. "Neither of them has asked me yet."

"Both of them will," she said confidently. "Just you wait."

And so I did, even though patience was never a virtue of mine. I waited for another week, determined to accept the invitation to the Yule Ball from whomever asked me first, and yet, none came. Marietta and all my other Ravenclaw friends half-heartedly agreed to go with other Hogwarts boys, and soon enough, I was the only one left without a date – much to their surprise. But even though it was coming down to the wire, as much as I was anticipating invitations from the two seekers, I was starting to dread when they would come.

The more glances I would share with each of them in the hallway, the more they went out of their way to just say hello to me, the more smiles I caught from them, the more my stomach would clench up when I would think of letting either Cedric or Harry down, telling whomever was second that I couldn't go with them. My gut would flip around in circles when I thought about it, twisting as if trying to get rid of the idea entirely. I had to accept one, and I had to reject the other; and even though I tried to think of it as a game of Quidditch, where one seeker would catch the snitch before the other, and the loser would have to deal with the disappointment regardless, I knew what it felt to be like the poor guy who let himself down. Who let everyone down.

And so I avoided the problem entirely.

I hid myself in my group of giggling girls from Ravenclaw whenever they passed. I only flew at night on the Quidditch pitch when I knew that Cedric would already be in bed and wouldn't have the chance to join me and make small talk. I sat on the opposite end of the Ravenclaw table during meals so Harry couldn't catch my eye and give me a goofy grin. I was walking on a thin line of a tightrope that I knew was pretty short length-wise, and any small force either way would make me topple over; but I was doing anything I could to dodge making a decision.

It made sense that it wasn't long before one of them pushed me anyway.

I was walking down the hallway only a few days before the Yule Ball. Marietta was on my right-hand side, talking about what color dress robes Terry Boot would wear in a couple of days, when I felt a hand grasp my wrist. It made me freeze in my tracks, and even if I hadn't had been familiar with the muscular grip from the countless times it had been there before, I could tell from Marietta's expression who it was. Her expression was one of wonder and exhilaration.

"Hey, Cho. Could I talk to you for a minute?"

I turned around and stared straight into those stormy gray eyes, a slow smile breaking across my face. "Sure."

He took me out into the Transfiguration courtyard. It was incredibly cold out, and the wind was bitter. My blue and silver scarf blew away from my body to brush his own yellow and black one, and I blushed. I didn't think he could tell though, judging by the redness of my burned, frost-nipped skin.

"I know it's a little late," he began, his dark hair blowing around crazily, "but I was wondering if you'd like to go to the Yule Ball with me."

My heart started to soar in relief, just like it did when I first took off on a broom for a Quidditch lesson with my father when I was five years old. "It's always going to be scary at first," he told me before I even attempted to lift off the ground. "But then you're going to straighten out, and it'll be like you're floating." Sure enough, I had been shaky at first and terribly nervous, but soon after when I was riding on the currents and slicing through the air like I fit right in, I felt completely and utterly at peace.

And that was what I was reminded of in that moment.

I shifted from foot to foot and thrust my hands into my coat pocket. I let out a cough to warm up my lungs because I couldn't even answer; the cold was too much. Each breath felt like a stab.

"It's okay if you don't want to," he said, laughing a little bit. "But I was just wondering and all."

My brown eyes shifted up to meet his. They were full of hope, of pure innocence and honest curiosity, and, underneath it all, a true care for me that I couldn't deny.

"You were like a snitch to catch." His smile stretched across his face, lighting up the dull courtyard background, which was littered with dead leaves and bare branches. "Actually, harder, y'know. It seemed as if I would never catch you before Christmas day."

I let myself laugh a little bit, and my breath puffed out in front of me. I felt this glow spread throughout me, amazed at how easy it was for me to just stand here and have a perfectly normal conversation with this boy that I would love to get to know even more. Cedric was making me warm on this cold winter's day, and it was something that before I wasn't sure I believed he could do.

"Feel free to stop my babbling at any time," he said with a small grin.

"Yes."

His brows knit. "Yes, what?"

My felt a smile spread across my lips, and I rocked on the balls of my feet. "Yes, I'll go to the ball with you."

"I – that's great! Thanks, so much! You don't know how happy you've made me."

Filled with the exuberance of the moment and how damn cute he looked just standing there, with those soft pink lips stumbling over his words and the chunk of hair that was sticking out of place on the top of his head and the beautiful white smile that was beaming down at me and the way the tip of his nose was bright red, I reached out and hugged him tight. He wrapped his arms around me in return, and I barely even noticed how cold I was when I was safe in this champion's arms.

But then, the pang that I had tried so hard to block out resounded through my body: _Harry._

The other champion. The Gryffindor seeker. The one who was so obviously infatuated with me. The one who didn't know a thing about the female existence but still tried to pretend he did anyway. The one who was a year younger than me but had witnessed more than I had in my entire life. The one who had waited too long to ask me out to the Yule Ball, only to have waited just a couple days sort of actually getting me. The one who had lost the competition for me.

The Chosen One.

We pulled back from our embrace. "Great," Cedric said, his face flushed with a pleasant blush that made his handsome features even more attractive. "I'll see you soon."

I watched him head off to his next class, but the smile was fading from my face. Half of me was filled with relief, while the other half was filled with dread of what was to come when Harry would ask me to the Yule Ball. I caught Marietta's gaze from outside the courtyard, where she had no doubt been standing there spying the whole time; she was jumping up and down now and squealing. I smiled back at her, at everyone's happiness that the true Hogwarts champion now had a date to the Yule Ball. And I grinned wider when I realized that it was _me_. _I_ was his date.

And each second that I thought about this, I was trying to convince myself that I had made the right choice, trying to put Harry's boyish face and scarred forehead to the back of my mind.

Cedric had caught me first. And, as I knew too well, the seeker who caught the snitch first won – at least in most cases.

But in this one, even though Harry was the Chosen One, he wasn't the one for me.


End file.
